


EXP: John and Sherlock oneshots

by chasingriver



Series: EXP Series - Experiments follow-ons (sorted by pairings, not chronological) [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Exhibitionism, M/M, Public Sex, Wax
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-20
Updated: 2012-03-03
Packaged: 2017-10-29 20:56:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasingriver/pseuds/chasingriver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-'Experiments' stories in the Experiments universe with the main pairing of Sherlock and John. </p><p>Honestly, it's easier and less confusing to just go and read 'Experiments 2.'  All the stories are there, in one place, chronologically. The pairings are listed at the start of every chapter. Skip the ones you don't like.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Norway

It had been John's idea. Of course. "Norway," he'd said. "How about a cabin in Norway?"

"You just want an excuse to buy one of those jumpers with reindeer on them."

"That's not it at all. They have cross-country skiing. It'll be beautiful."

"Honestly, John. Cross-country skiing? Have you ever actually tried it? It's hard work and no fun whatsoever."

John was undaunted. "It'll be romantic – nobody else for miles around, a fireplace with a raging fire, snow falling outside, a sheepskin rug under your back as I fuck you senseless…"

"Oh." There was a pause. "Right. I suppose it could have some merit. I'll call Mycroft and see if we can use the jet."

Mycroft had questioned their choice of location. "Norway? Why on earth do you want to go to Norway?"

Having no good reasons of his own, Sherlock had been reduced to using John's. (He left out the one where John fucked him senseless, but Mycroft had already figured that out.)

Flights were arranged, a car was hired, and a couple weeks later, they found themselves driving along snow-covered roads to a remote cabin in Norway. There was, indeed, a fireplace. There was nobody for miles around. There was electricity and even satellite internet access. ("I am _not_ going without my laptop, John.") The kitchen was fully stocked. There was even a sheepskin rug. (John had requested that specifically.) There was a huge bed, a sofa, and a couple of chairs. It was, as far as woodland cabins go, perfect.

John had procured a traditional Norwegian jumper in Oslo. Sherlock had insisted on something other than the reindeer motif. (John had secretly agreed with him, but he'd argued the point for form's sake.) He wore it proudly as they drove through the Norwegian countryside in their Range Rover. The freshly fallen snow kicked up behind them as they sped towards the cabin. Sherlock sat in the passenger seat, huddled in his black coat, freezing. ("Don't you want a parka, Sherlock?" _I'd look ridiculous in a parka._ "No.") He pulled his scarf tighter around his neck, and wondered why on earth he'd agreed to this.

"We can stop and get you something warmer out of the luggage."

"I'm fine. We're almost there." His nose was red, and he warmed his gloved hands against the SUV's heat vents. He sat and fiddled with the GPS. They _were_ almost there – he could almost hear the siren's call of the central heating beckoning them. It was supposed to be a very modern cabin.

The snow drifts had already been cleared away from the door, and they wasted no time getting inside.

"Oh, this is nice. This is very nice."

Sherlock somewhat grudgingly agreed that it was, in fact, perfect, at least as far as cabins went.

John started to make pasta for dinner. He busied himself in the well-stocked kitchen, finding fresh bread, milk, and plenty of food. This was not 'roughing it' by any definition.

Sherlock unpacked their belongings. It was only a two night stay, but it seemed like they'd packed enough for at least a week. ("What if our clothes get soaked while we're skiing?" "We're not skiing." "Well, I'm still taking an extra jumper.")

John was still cooking dinner, and Sherlock had curled up on the sofa with his laptop. "The internet access works." It was his first experience with satellite internet, and he was pleasantly surprised. _God knows what they were charging him to check his email, but whatever it was, it was worth it._ He'd gotten over his minor snit from the drive and was settling in to the spirit of the thing when all the lights went out.

"Fucking hell." That was John as he fumbled around in the kitchen, looking for a torch.

Sherlock calmly walked over with his laptop – still fully charged and on a battery. The screen lit up the room. John finally found a torch under the sink, and they took stock of the situation. The fireplace was an obvious source of both light and heat, but in the pre-power-outage central-heating cosiness of it all, they hadn't lit the fire yet. There were a few pieces of wood and some kindling stacked by the fireplace.

"Sherlock, could you get the fire going? I'm going out to see if there's a generator."

Sherlock was about to complain, promptly realised he had the better end of the deal, and shut up.

John bundled himself back up and headed out into the dark, snowy night, armed with his torch. He tramped around the cabin, finding no signs of a generator. He did, however, find a generator outlet. _Well, that's a start._ About thirty metres from the cabin there was a shed. He made his way over there, snow getting into his boots and soaking his trousers. The shed door was barred by snowdrifts, and he worked to shift the snow by hand so he could open it. _Bloody hell. Why don't they keep a shovel outside?_ He finally managed to force the door open and shone the torch inside. _Merciful fucking christ. They have a generator._

John's only experience with generators had been about twenty years ago. His family had gone on holiday to Wales in a caravan when he was a teenager. It had been cold, wet, and miserable. The only saving grace had been the noisy generator, which had provided electricity to run the little electric heater and the stove. They'd sat huddled around the heater, hot water bottles pressed to their chests, sipping cups of tea. _Ah, family holidays._ John was convinced this wasn't going to turn into one of those memories. There was going to be good food and shagging on the rug if it killed him. He tried to move the generator. It might, in fact, kill him. The thing weighed a tonne.

He trudged back through the snow to get Sherlock.

Sherlock had managed to start a fire, but the smoke was reluctant to go up the chimney and was pouring into the cabin.

"Sherlock? What the hell? Are you okay?"

"Yes, John. I'm just having a little trouble with the fire."

"Did you open the flue?"

Sherlock gave him a _look._ "Of _course_ I opened the flue. The chimney is a little cold. I should have warmed it up before I started the fire. It'll be fine in a few minutes."

John peered through the blue haze at his lover's soot stained hands and couldn't help but smile. _When was the last time Sherlock Holmes got his hands dirty? Well, with something other than blood, at least._ "I'm going to need some help with the generator. It's full of petrol and I won't be able to shift it through the snow by myself."

Sherlock bundled himself up (in his warm coat, this time). Between the two of them, they managed to lug the thing back to the cabin. "You can go back inside, Sherlock. I'll get this started."

Sherlock smiled his thanks and retreated to the relative warmth and light of the fire.

John kneeled down and looked at the generator. _This shouldn't be too bad. Choke. Fuel cutoff valve. Pull start. (God, I hate those.) On-off switch. Cable to connect to the house. Okay, I can do this._

He set the choke and the fuel valve to the correct positions, braced himself against the frame of the generator, and pulled on the handle attached to the string. _More resistance than I'd expected._ Nothing. He pulled again. Nothing. _Bugger._ Again. This time, the thing at least tried to turn over. _Okay, now we're getting somewhere._ A few more pulls and he was out of breath, but the engine had finally started. _About fucking time._ He connected the cable to the outlet on the cabin. _There must be a cut-over switch somewhere inside._

As he walked in, Sherlock gaped at him through the haze. "John, are you okay? You look like you've just run a marathon." John muttered something about 'the fucking generator' and left it at that.

Using the torch, he found the electrical panel and the cut-over switch for the generator. With a dramatic flourish that he sincerely hoped would be justified, he flipped the breaker. Miraculously, the lights blazed back into life. Sherlock looked at him, clearly impressed.

"Where on earth did you learn how to work a generator, John?"

"Family caravan trips to Wales are good for something." He smiled. "That's about the only thing, though."

They cracked a couple windows to let the smoke out of the cabin. The fire was burning well now, and the smoke was indeed going up the chimney. John moved over to the fire, trying to get warm. Sherlock came over to help warm him, and then stepped back. "Good lord, John. You're soaking wet, and you reek of petrol fumes." He smiled and raised an eyebrow. "I think we should get you out of those clothes."

John looked over at the kitchen. He'd left dinner on the stove, but they could always reheat that later. _What am I thinking? Yes, of course I want to get out of these clothes._ He started shedding his clothes with the enthusiasm of a teenager on a first date. "You know, you're a little bit smoky yourself."

That was all the prompting Sherlock needed, and soon they were naked on the sheepskin rug in front of the fireplace. In a nod to romance, Sherlock had turned off his laptop, and John had dimmed some of the now-functional lights. ("John, why did we bother with the generator if we're just going to turn the lights off?" "Shut up and kiss me, you adorable idiot.")

Kissing on the rug turned into cuddling. The cuddling, while pleasant, was replaced with enthusiastic groping. The groping was quickly replaced with licking, and biting, and teasing. You can imagine where it went from there.

As they lay there, warm and fuzzy (in many senses of the words - between the fire, and the orgasms, and the rug), they realised that perhaps a bowl of cereal would be just fine for dinner.

They left the generator running – the fire would go out before morning and neither of them wanted to wake up to a freezing cabin. (Actually, John didn't want to get dressed to go back outside and turn it off. He made a convincing argument about the freezing cabin though, and Sherlock seemed to buy it.)

Curled up warmly against each other in bed, they barely even registered the large "whump" outside the cabin.

"Did you hear something, John?"

"Hmm? No…"

They awoke to a crisp winter day. John seemed to have an abundance of energy even before he made the tea. "What do you think, Sherlock? Snowshoeing today?"

Sherlock looked at him blearily. "You've completely lost your mind, haven't you." It wasn't even a question.

John continued with the undaunted cheeriness of one who has been forced to endure family caravan holidays. "No, you said you weren't going cross-country skiing. You never said _anything_ about snowshoeing."

Sherlock muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "I would have if I'd known it was on the table," and pulled the duvet back up around his chin.

John smiled. In one swift movement, he pulled the duvet off his lover.

"John! It's cold."

"Of course it's cold, Sherlock. It's Norway, it's winter, and you're not wearing anything. Now, I don't think you're showing the proper amount of enthusiasm."

"How so?"

"Well, we're on holiday. We should either be participating in healthy outdoor activities or fucking each other senseless."

Sherlock's brain finally kicked into gear, and he pulled John on top of him, tugging at his dressing gown to remove it.

John smiled. They didn't even have snowshoes.

It wasn't until much later (once in the bed, some strong coffee, and then another session on the rug in front of the fireplace), when John went out to put more petrol in the generator, that he saw the tree.

They were in a forest, of course. There were lots of trees. However, this particular tree, already mostly dead and heavy with snow, had fallen directly behind their Range Rover and was blocking them in.

"Um, Sherlock? You should come and see this."

It wasn't a small tree. It was about 9 inches in diameter and at least thirty feet long. There was no chance of moving it by hand.

"Perhaps there's a chainsaw in the shed. Did you see one?"

"Um, I don't know. I was looking for a generator, not a chainsaw, and it was dark. Could you go and look?"

Sherlock looked at him like he'd grown an extra head. "Why?"

"Well, I did get the generator."

"Surely you don't expect me to use a chainsaw, John. You were a soldier… I'd have thought this was more your area."

"We didn't cut down many trees in the desert."

"There aren't many trees in London. And I've certainly never used a chainsaw."

John had the mental image of Sherlock wielding a chainsaw and decided he enjoyed Sherlock's fingers entirely too much to put them at risk.

He headed back to the shed, where there was, indeed, a chainsaw. It was huge. _Another pull start. Dear lord._ He started the thing with some trepidation. _Texas. Chainsaw. Massacre._ He'd never even seen the movie, but those were the only words running through this head. He walked around to the front of the cabin, brandishing it like a two-handed sword. _(Well, the grip was all wrong, but it felt just about as heavy. And lethal.)_

Sherlock backed up, silently glad he'd gotten out of this.

John braced himself as he cut into the tree, expecting kickback that never happened. One cut at either edge of the road, and the log fell to the ground. The two of them would be able to lift that out of the way. He killed the engine and sighed with relief. John put down the chainsaw and turned to Sherlock. "I am willing to concede that there _might_ have been better places to go on holiday. This one certainly seems to have it in for us."

Sherlock tried not to agree, and failed. "Well, yes. But it's not like you could have known…"

"Is there any reason _not_ to drive back to Oslo today and get a nice posh hotel room? At this point, I'm worried we'll burn down the cabin or something."

They smiled and went inside to pack. They were glad for the extra clothes – they didn't have to make the trip home smelling of smoke and petrol. ("See, Sherlock, I told you we'd need them.") On the drive back to Oslo, they enumerated the merits of large cities versus small cabins in the woods. Large cities won, with one exception. Sherlock promised John he'd buy a sheepskin rug when they got back.

They checked into their plush hotel room and collapsed exhausted on the bed. After a nap, they went out and had a very civilised dinner. John tried to purchase Sherlock a lovely Norwegian jumper. Sherlock threatened to withhold sex. They went back to the hotel and celebrated _not_ buying Sherlock a jumper.

The next day, as they settled into the plush leather seats in Mycroft's jet, Sherlock turned to John. "Well, that was Norway. Where to, next?"

"I think London will be fine, thank you." John was fairly sure no one in London even owned a generator. _Or a chainsaw. Well, unless they worked at one of the parks, then perhaps they'd have a chainsaw._ His rapidly escaping train of thought was halted by Sherlock's next words.

"Have you ever had sex on a plane?"

A year earlier, this question would have caused John to turn bright red. "No," he said, as he turned around looking for a good spot. There was a sofa and a couple of tables in addition to the chairs. "But there's really nowhere private except the toilet, and that doesn't seem like much fun."

Sherlock looked at him. "John. We're on a private jet - emphasis on the word _private._ " He rang the call button.

"Yes, sir?"

He used his best Being-Nice-To-People voice and that slightly haughty smile. "You know, we really don't need any food on this flight. If you could just give us some privacy, that would be lovely."

"Of course, sir."

John was sure he saw a hint of a smile, but she quickly turned away and disappeared to the front of the plane.

John practically dragged Sherlock over to the sofa and pushed him onto it. Lying on top of him, he pinned his arms above his head with one hand and used his free hand to rub the bulge forming in Sherlock's trousers. He kissed him passionately until Sherlock was starting to push up into him. Then he stopped. Sherlock gave a little whine at the loss of John's mouth. "Now, Sherlock. What did you enjoy most about our little holiday?"

"The rug."

"Fair enough, but we can't really bring that up in polite conversation when people ask us why we went to Norway, can we?" He rubbed himself lasciviously against Sherlock. "What else?"

"Oslo. I hear they have fabulous pickled fish."

"Okay, that works. But I'm saying _you're_ the one who likes pickled fish. I don't want to be the one getting it for Christmas every year. Clothes off, now."

Sherlock liked very few things more than John giving him orders. He wriggled out from underneath him and started stripping. John was inspecting the sofa more closely. "I wonder if I can use these seatbelts as bondage straps…" He might have been surprised to learn (or perhaps, not) that those "seatbelts" were there for precisely that reason. Mycroft had requested them. Subtlety is all about plausible deniability.

The seat belts worked marvellously. He tied Sherlock, hands and feet, along the length of the sofa. He looked down at his lover's body, stretched taut beneath him as he straddled his legs. "So gorgeous. Although I can't believe I'm in love with someone who likes pickled fish." He leaned over and captured Sherlock's mouth in a kiss before he could reply. He could feel Sherlock's erection pressing against his trousers.

"You need to be wearing fewer clothes."

"Really? I'm not sure you're in any position to tell me what to do, Sherlock." John grinned, evilly. "I could just leave you tied there and ask that lovely flight attendant to bring us some dinner. Then I'd lay it out on your gorgeous stomach like a Scandinavian smorgasbord and eat it off of you. Don't worry. I'd feed you too, of course. Perhaps some pickled herring?"

Sherlock knew that John was joking, but being used as a human table did have some appeal. _File that away for later._

John glanced around the cabin. This was Mycroft's jet. They had to be here somewhere. _Ah, there. A small paper bag over by the minibar. Oh, and a small fabric drawstring bag. I'll have to remember to thank him later._ Sherlock craned his neck to see where John was going. "Close your eyes, love."

Sherlock could feel John placing… something… on his stomach. _Something small and light. In a row leading towards his cock._ _Four of them_. Then he caught the unmistakable aroma. _Jelly Babies. Of course. There were probably baby-wipes on board too._ "My brother is so utterly predictable."

"Mmm." John ate the first Jelly Baby off his lover's stomach, sucking it into his mouth and then teasing Sherlock's stomach with his tongue. "Are you hungry, love?" He chewed on the sweet as he traced lines between the Jelly Babies with his finger, causing Sherlock to shiver.

"Yes, John."

"Oh, you seem to be a little tied up at the moment." He giggled at his own joke. "Would you like me to get you one?"

"Yes, please, John." His voice was a little breathy.

He scooped up the next Jelly Baby with his tongue, only inches away from the head of Sherlock's hard cock. Sherlock shivered and let out a small moan.

He moved up Sherlock's body and kissed him, letting the Jelly Baby fall into Sherlock's mouth.

Once John broke the kiss, Sherlock bit into the sweet and sighed. _I can see why Mycroft likes these so much._

John was back down by the Jelly Babies, getting deliciously close to Sherlock's erection. He sucked another into his mouth, making sure to suck and tease the skin until there was a lovely red mark. "There now, I've gone and marked you, love. Perhaps I'll have to mark you a little more to balance that out. Another Jelly Baby?"

Sherlock moaned in response. John's teasing was getting to him.

"Sorry, love, what was that? I didn't hear you…"

"Yes… John." Being tied up was doing delicious things to his mind. He couldn't squirm away when John's tongue tickled him, and the bondage made him feel so wonderfully vulnerable.

John delicately reached down with his mouth and sucked in the last Jelly Baby. He moved to Sherlock's head and made him crane his neck to reach his mouth. John let him have the sweet and Sherlock fell back onto the sofa, sucking on it contentedly.

"You look like you need something to do with your mouth, love. Unfortunately, I'm out of Jelly Babies." The way John had tied the seatbelts allowed him to reposition Sherlock on his side without undoing the restraints. Sherlock was now facing the edge of the sofa, his mouth at about knee height.

"Please, John."

"Please what, Sherlock?"

"Let me suck you."

"Oh, I don't know. It seems to me you were making fun of my new jumper. I'm not sure if I want to share my delicious cock with someone who doesn't respect my lovely Norwegian snowflake jumper." John used all the self-restraint he had to keep the laughter from his voice. If Sherlock had looked at his face, it would have been all over – John was _this close_ to becoming a pile of giggles. He stood close to Sherlock – a couple inches away from his lovely mouth. All Sherlock could see was his trousers.

"It's a very nice jumper, John."

"Really? You don't sound convinced, Sherlock."

"No, it really is quite nice."

"Perhaps you'd like one of your own for Christmas? I'm sure I could find one. Perhaps something in a nice Nordic pattern – red and white. Very festive."

There was a very long pause, as if Sherlock was trying to decide how much to concede.

"Oh for fuck's sake John, just let me suck your cock." The words tumbled from his mouth in a rush. "Please?" There was a definite pleading quality to it.

John, honestly, had been doing his best not to strip off his clothes for the last ten minutes. The sight of Sherlock, naked and tightly bound on the cream-coloured leather sofa, had been steadily weakening that resolve. John relented. He had no intention of _actually_ making Sherlock wear a jumper. He much preferred those lovely tight shirts.

Standing inches from Sherlock's face, he undid his belt and removed his trousers and pants. By this point, he was completely hard. He knelt on the floor in front of his bound lover. "I don't know, Sherlock. Are you sure you want this? With your arms bound, you'll have no control over how deep I go… You'll be completely at my mercy. Perhaps I just want to fuck your face hard until I come down your throat."

Sherlock moaned as he strained to reach John's cock. It was tantalisingly close to his mouth, yet not quite close enough.

John smiled and pulled his hard cock away from his stomach, offering it to Sherlock. Sherlock gratefully accepted it like he hadn't eaten in weeks. John was the one to moan now, the wet tightness of Sherlock's mouth feeling like heaven. He let Sherlock ease into it – gave him a chance to do those wonderful things he did with his tongue.

Sherlock groaned around him. John smelled of raw sex, and it made his mouth water. Being pulled tight on the sofa like this, his mouth just a willing orifice, was obscenely hot. His cock ached with arousal and need, but he didn't care. All that mattered was servicing John and giving him pleasure.

John fisted Sherlock's dark curls. Sherlock made a cut-off noise around his cock. "You like that don't you? You like it when I do this. You like me controlling what you do with your mouth."

Sherlock moaned assent.

John firmed his grip at the back of Sherlock's head and forced his cock further into Sherlock's mouth. _Oh. So fucking tight._ Sherlock's teeth grazed the underside of his cock, making him moan. "Do you want it harder, love? Do you want me to fuck that tight, hot mouth of yours?"

"Ngghh."

John took that to be a yes, and started fucking his mouth, hard. He didn't give Sherlock much of a chance to keep up, deliberately going deep enough to cut off his airway every now and then. It felt exquisite.

Sherlock gave up trying to do anything creative and just let John take his mouth, revelling in the submission of it all.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock, you're good at this. I need to fuck your mouth like this more often. You like having your mouth used, don't you?"

Another cut-off groan came from Sherlock's chest as John kept up his blistering pace.

John's legs stiffened as he felt the tight coil in his gut. "Oh, fuck… Sherlock…" He came in hot spurts down Sherlock's eager throat. "Fuck, yes. Oh…" His legs were suddenly weak. He released his grip on Sherlock's hair and slowly pulled out.

Sherlock took in a deep shuddering breath and sucked John's cock clean as he removed it. "Thank you, John."

Those few words of gratitude hit John in _all_ the right places. He bent down and took Sherlock's mouth with his, tasting himself on Sherlock's lips. "You did so well, love. That was incredible. Thank _you_." He looked at Sherlock's raging hard-on, leaking copiously onto his stomach. "Perhaps I can do something about that. You did so very well, after all." He shifted Sherlock onto his back again, leaving the restraints in place.

Sherlock's eyes were blown with lust, his perfect lips swollen and red. John was certain he was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. He lowered his mouth to Sherlock's cock. Sherlock bucked against his restraints at the contact of John's mouth. "Ohhh. John…" John teased the head of his cock with his tongue for a while and took him deeply a couple times, but he had no intention of getting him off like this. He pulled off and Sherlock gave a small moan, wondering if he was to be left wanting.

"Don't worry love; I have something else in mind." John retrieved the small fabric pouch and removed the bottle of lube. Inside was a small note in neat handwriting. "Enjoy."

Sherlock looked at him, dazedly. "Where…?"

"Your brother is a very considerate man. We should be sure to thank him for his thoughtfulness. I'm sure we can figure out _some_ way to show our appreciation." Sherlock's cock twitched. John smiled. He crawled on top of him and straddled his bound legs. "What do you want, love?"

"Be inside you…"

"You want me to ride you until you come, don't you?"

Sherlock nodded, unable to form a coherent sentence. He strained against his bonds, which only served to remind him how little control he actually had.

John bent down and took one of his nipples in his mouth, teasing it, biting at it softly until Sherlock moaned.

He lubed up Sherlock's straining cock and prepared himself with a couple of lubed fingers. He shifted forward until he was positioned correctly and lined Sherlock's cock up against his tight hole. Pinning Sherlock's hips to the sofa with both hands, he slowly lowered himself down onto Sherlock's hard length. _Oh merciful fucking hell. So tight. So good._ He was glad he'd pinned Sherlock's hips – even tied down like this, Sherlock's hips had thrust upwards at the contact with his arse. John took his time, giving his body a chance to adjust to the fullness. This position – it was more intense than usual – being able to _ride_ him like this.

Sherlock was in no position to think coherently. All he could concentrate on was the silky hot tightness surrounding his cock. It was exquisite. After so long without stimulation, it wasn't going to take him long. He desperately tried to focus – tried to pull his mind together so he'd last longer. He didn't want this to be over so soon.

John looked at his lover, almost feeling the concentration radiating from him. "Oh no, love. I don't think so. You don't get to control this. He started riding him faster, taking his full length and then pulling almost all the way off him. As he slammed back down onto him, Sherlock gasped.

"Fuck… John, harder."

John's thighs burned, but he kept up his frantic pace. He could tell from Sherlock's expression that he was close to orgasm. "Come for me, love."

John's words sent Sherlock crashing over the edge and he came hard, deep inside John's arse.

John rested on Sherlock's chest, sliding off of his cock and holding him tightly. He placed gentle kisses over his face and neck, murmuring endearments. He slid off Sherlock. "Let me get you out of these restraints, love." John released his hands and rubbed his wrists gently to improve the circulation. After placing gentle kisses on his wrists, he went to work on his ankles.

Sherlock sat up on the sofa, his head still fuzzy from the orgasm. He looked dazedly at John. "So good…"

John smiled at him. "Yes, love. It was incredible. Thank you." He kissed him again. Then he fished in the little drawstring bag and got out the inevitable package of baby wipes.

Sherlock smiled. "So predictable…"

"Mmm, perhaps. But you certainly seemed to enjoy the Jelly Babies. Would you like some more?"

Suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, Sherlock was famished. "God, yes." He tore into the paper bag with a level of enthusiasm John rarely saw when Sherlock was around food. He scarfed down the Jelly Babies as John cleaned them up. As they got dressed, they started to feel the plane make its descent into London.

"Good timing."

Sherlock smiled. "They would have waited on the tarmac if we weren't done."

John nearly choked on a Jelly Baby. He could get used to this.

As they exited the plane, the flight attendant gave them a huge grin. "Did you enjoy your flight, sirs?"

"Oh, yes. Lovely, thank you." It wasn't like they were fooling anyone – they both looked extremely well-fucked, and they'd been loud enough for the pilots to hear them in the closed cabin. And, though they didn't know it (although Sherlock suspected as much), video footage of the entire flight was being transmitted to Mycroft's personal feed as they spoke.

They stepped into the waiting black car to find Mycroft and Greg waiting for them.

"How was your flight, little brother?" Mycroft grinned at the pair. "I hope it was better than the cabin."

John looked at him in surprise. "How did you know about that?"

"About what, John? Honestly, a cabin in the middle of the woods? It doesn't sound like much fun."

John was just about to believe him when Mycroft continued.

"Except for the rug. That looked like fun."

John flushed bright red, and realised he should have known. Sherlock just smiled, not surprised in the least.

The car headed off into the London night.

"Where are we going?" John asked.

Mycroft gave that smile of his. "I thought we'd start with dinner…"

* * *

**A/N:** This story is for **tsukinoblossom** ( **moonblossom** on AO3). Thanks. :)


	2. Fire and Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock decides to experiment with hot wax.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For **Deklava** , who agreed that hot wax sounded like a good idea.

It had been Sherlock's idea. Of course. He never _could_ do anything by half measures. He sat at the desk with his laptop (John's laptop, actually) as John read the paper.

"Hot wax."

"Hmm." That had seemed like a good, non-committal response. "What about it?"

"I'd like to try it, John. It seems like a fairly safe method of intense stimulation."

If there was one thing John was getting used to in this relationship, it was being a bit of a novice. He knew the mechanics of hot wax, of course. He'd had his fair share of d/s experiences. But Sherlock's curiosity and, well, frankly _unbridled_ enthusiasm for new areas of study had left him in the dust weeks ago. _Bridled. Hm._

"Have you tried it before, John?"

"No. Who did you have in mind as the recipient?" John wasn't sure if he was up for hot wax tonight.

Sherlock giggled. "Oh, I don't know. Mycroft?"

"He'd probably enjoy it."

"Indeed. No, I was thinking I'd like you to try it on me."

John was already out of the chair, fumbling around in the kitchen drawers looking for the emergency candles. "On the bed. Naked. Oh, and put a towel down. Wait for me."

Sherlock didn't need to be told twice. (John's subtle attempts at "training" him, he had to admit, were working. Positive reinforcement was a powerful motivator.)

John found the candles and did some quick searches on the internet. He knew they shouldn't be beeswax, but he wanted to reassure himself on any other safety issues. _Yes, these should work well enough._

He walked into their bedroom to see Sherlock lying on the bed, half-hard and grinning at him like an idiot.

"It's fascinating, John. This is supposed to be painful, and yet I find myself oddly aroused."

John huffed in amusement. "Sherlock, anything that involves you taking your clothes off seems to leave you oddly aroused. There's really nothing odd about it. You have the sex drive of a teenager and endless curiosity. Whatever will I do with you?"

"You've created a monster, John." A smiled played at the corners of his lips, even though he said it without a trace of laughter in his voice.

"Yes. Well. I got lucky, didn't I? Now, that's enough from you. On your stomach." _Oh dear lord, that arse. Talk about getting lucky._ "Now, do you want restraints?"

"I leave the choice up to you."

"I think you can handle it. If it proves to be too much stimulation, I'll just stop. You already know the restraints get you aroused – it would just confuse the data." At this point, John was leaning towards the theory that Sherlock was a bit of a pain slut, but he could accept the premise that this was 'research' – at least the first time Sherlock tried something. Once he wanted to do it again, both of them knew it was because he was into it.

John had brought two candles, some cold water (just in case), and a couple of ice cubes. He'd left them outside the door, not wanting Sherlock to see what he had in store. _It was good to have a bit of surprise._ He ran his hand over the pale skin of Sherlock's back. _No traces of body hair. Good. Probably not the sort of pain he'd be expecting._ He smiled to himself, wondering what his lover would look like with less body hair and a different sort of wax. "Ready, love?"

"Mm. Yes, John."

He retrieved the bowl containing the ice cubes and a candle. He lit the candle, the hiss of the match causing Sherlock to raise his head in interest.

"Head on the pillow. Face the other direction." John didn't want him to know when to expect it. That was part of the fun. He let the candle burn for a little while, a small pool of molten wax gathering at the top.

Sherlock was lying on the bed, his arms folded beneath his head, waiting. His breathing betrayed his arousal, but otherwise he was still.

Without preamble, John tipped the candle. The wax fell in a stream and splattered onto the unmarked skin of Sherlock's upper back.

Sherlock sucked in a breath and gasped.

"Good?"

"Oh, yes John. Very good."

"Describe it."

"Startling, but not too hot. It felt like liquid fire for a second, but then it cooled and I could feel it harden on my skin."

Sherlock's spine, spread out below him in a lovely curve, called out for attention. With his free hand, John picked up the ice cube. Starting at the base of Sherlock's neck, he ran it quickly down his spine.

"Oh… _Oh._ Wait – John, was that… what was that?"

"What do you think it was?"

"I… I don't know."

John used the candle to drip molten wax along his spine where he had just used the ice.

"Oh… Yes. That was the wax again. What you did before – was that ice? It was hard to tell the difference, but it didn't harden like the wax does."

"Mmm. Very good, love."

"More. Please, John?"

"Well, since you asked so nicely." He let the hot wax gather again and this time spread it across his lower back, just above his arse.

" _Ngghhhh."_

"A little more sensitive there, perhaps?"

"Yes. Oh… oh, that's nice. I'm so hard, John."

"I think you should _consider_ the possibility that you have a bit of a pain kink." John smiled, knowing that they were well beyond the realm of _possibility_ and more into _certainty._ "Not that there's a damned thing wrong with that, mind you. You're so fucking _sexy_ when you moan like that, Sherlock."

"Mmm. It feels so good, John. More…"

John experimentally dripped wax on his left arse cheek. Sherlock moaned again and his muscles twitched in response. _I can't believe how fucking lucky I am._ John placed the ice cube in the hollow of Sherlock's lower back and left it there, eliciting more lovely noises from his partner. Suddenly caught up in the idea of symmetry on his perfect canvas, he dripped wax on Sherlock's right arse cheek. "You're so beautiful like this, love."

"More, John. I want more. I need _more_."

"Greedy sod, aren't you." With one hand, he spread Sherlock's arse cheeks. He felt, as much as heard, the sharp intake of breath.

"Yes. Oh, _yes._ Do it, John."

He let the wax drip onto his lover's exposed entrance, not caring that some dripped onto his hand.

"Ngghhh. _Fuck._ Yes…"

John scooped up the melting ice cube from the base of his spine, and rubbed it across his opening. Sherlock bucked underneath him.

He pushed the cold, hardened wax away with his fingers and blew out the candle. He teased Sherlock's opening with his tongue. The resulting delicious sound made his toes curl. "What do you think, love? Do you need _more_?"

Sherlock just groaned.

John bent down and whispered in his ear. "You're such a little pain slut, my love. You're so precocious. I should have known this wouldn't be enough for you. You need more, and I'm going to make sure you get it." He lit another match, this time lighting a second candle as well.

Sherlock tensed as the base of the lit candle was pushed firmly against his tight entrance.

"Relax." As John inserted the candle into Sherlock's arse, he realised it wasn't going to be completely vertical. _So much the better._ A steady stream of wax started to drip off the candle and spatter onto Sherlock's arse cheeks. John used the second candle to trace patterns across his back and shoulders. Sherlock bucked wildly on the bed, causing the candle in his arse to spatter wax more wildly across his buttocks. "Hm… I'm so glad we didn't use restraints. It's so much _prettier_ to see you writhing like this. How does it feel, love?"

"Ngghhh…"

"Sherlock. Tell me how it _feels."_

"Ngghhh… Good."

"Better with two candles?"

"Oh, yes…"

"God, Sherlock, I want to fuck you right now. You have no idea. Covered in wax, writhing around on the bed like that. I just want to take that candle out and shove my cock in your arse."

"Oh god, yes."

John didn't need to be told twice. He didn't even bother with his shirt. He blew out both candles, undid his trousers as quickly as possible and stepped out of them, pulling his pants down at the same time. Grabbing the lube, he slicked himself up. He spread Sherlock's arse cheeks, brushed away the accumulated wax, and shoved himself in with one hard thrust.

"Fuck, oh god, yes John!" Sherlock angled his hips up and let John pound into him, relishing the tight friction of John's cock inside him. He'd been so hard since they'd started with the candles. John's thrusts pushed his cock against the towel on the bed. The stimulation threatened to overwhelm him. "John… Not going to last…"

John bent down over him and hissed in his ear. "You're going to wait. I'm going to fuck you first. _Then_ I'll let you come." He bit Sherlock's ear, just in case the message had been lost somewhere.

Sherlock groaned, loving it when John was like this. "Yes, John."

John continued fucking his lover with unrestrained enthusiasm. Both of them were making enough noise to wake the dead.

John wasn't sure what actually did him in. It was quite possibly the noises Sherlock was making, but it could have been the lovely patterns of white wax on his pale skin. The tight heat of Sherlock's arse certainly didn't hurt either. His orgasm was coalescing in the near distance. "Oh, fuck. Come for me, love." He reached around and fisted Sherlock's cock as he started to come deep inside him. Sherlock let out a desperate moan as he came all over John's hand.

John collapsed on top of him, breathing heavily and kissing his neck. "Christ, Sherlock. You'll be the death of me. But what a way to go."

Sherlock, his limbs and his mind slack with bliss and endorphins, giggled a bit. "Research, John. There's never enough data…"


	3. Milk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock decides to help John buy the milk. His method is a lot more complicated and involves much more nudity. Rated M for sex and language. John/Sherlock. Humour/PWP.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks go to the wonderful non_canonical and {IBegToDreamAndDiffer} for their betas and feedback. Any mistakes, of course, are my own.

"John. We need milk."

John looked up blearily from his paper. "Fine. I'll get some tomorrow, Sherlock."

"No, John. We need milk now."

John rubbed his eyes and gave him his 'Oh god, you're in one of _those_ moods' look. "Do I dare ask why? It's almost midnight."

"Because we're out of milk. Come on. Sainsbury's is open." Sherlock had that slightly manic edge to his voice that he got when he was on a case.

There was no stopping Sherlock when he was like this.

John shook his head slightly and got up from his chair. "You're barmy. You know that, right?"

Sherlock gave him an eager smile. "Come on John, it'll be fun. You always do the shopping."

"There's a reason for that," John muttered under his breath. "If I went running off for milk at half past eleven, you'd wonder what the hell I was up to."

Sherlock just shrugged, undaunted. "Come on. It's the perfect time."

John grabbed his coat. Sherlock was already dressed and practically vibrating with excitement.

John gave him a questioning look. "It's just milk, Sherlock. Honestly, I need to take you shopping more often if you're going to be like this about it." He went towards the fridge. "Are you sure there's none left? I think we still have some…"

Sherlock grabbed him and almost dragged him out the door before he could reach the fridge. He took the stairs two at a time, John hurrying behind him.

Outside, the evening was surprisingly warm. "See, John? It's a lovely night for a walk."

"Since when do _you_ go for walks? I can't even drag you to the park on a nice afternoon."

"Fresh air, John. Good for the lungs. Come on, keep up!"

The fluorescent lights of the Sainsbury's lit up the otherwise dark street. Other than a couple of bored checkout girls, the place was practically deserted.

Sherlock strode down the aisles towards the milk and walked right past it.

"Hang on a sec, the milk's over here."

"Follow me." After a quick glance around, he pulled John through a service door.

Sherlock's eyes darted around the empty warehouse area. There was a loading dock.

"Midnight, John. A new shift comes on soon. Lorries full of milk, eggs, and vegetables. Shelf-stackers, John. This place will be crawling with them..." Sherlock smiled.

"If you think I'm shagging some random shelf-stacker, you've got another think coming."

"Don't be silly, John. The fun part is avoiding them."

At the sound of footsteps, Sherlock quirked a smile and pulled John toward another door. "In here."

They found themselves in the refrigeration unit behind the dairy products. Looking out between the milk shelves, they could see the rest of the shop. "Here, John. It's the perfect place."

Sherlock pushed him up against the metal racks holding the milk containers, making a loud clattering sound.

"Christ, Sherlock. We can't do it in here. Someone could see us – the racks are open to the shop."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and gave him a wicked grin. "Exactly." He paused for a second. "Someone could reach in and grab something other than milk…"

"Oh… god. Sherlock, I really don't think this is a good idea."

"Which is _exactly_ why we should do it." Sherlock started undoing John's trousers and leaned in for a fumbled kiss.

Sherlock's excitement was infectious. At the touch of Sherlock's fingers on his flies, John was in. He pulled Sherlock's head closer and gave him a proper kiss, biting at his lower lip. He undid Sherlock's belt with his other hand.

Sherlock spun him around to face the milk racks and pulled down his lover's trousers and pants. He braced John's hands against the racks. "Mm. Delicious, John." He finished pulling down his own trousers.

John felt Sherlock's hand on his hardening cock. The pleasure turned to confusion as Sherlock pressed it down against one of the racks and placed a two pint carton of milk across it.

"Argh! That's cold!" John hissed. "Sherlock, what the hell?"

"Just making sure you don't go anywhere, John."

"Do you really think that's likely?"

"No, but I want to make you wait. I don't see you as the type to befoul milk racks. Besides, it's fairly unlikely anyone will reach in that far to get their milk."

Suddenly, that was all John could think about. _Some poor biddy who can't sleep, out to get some milk for her late-night cuppa. 'The freshest ones are always in the back, dearie.' Oh good lord._

Sherlock's hot tongue on the back of his neck shut his subconscious right up. Soon Sherlock was biting at his neck and rubbing his body against John's.

John pushed back against him, grinding his arse against Sherlock's erection, and then he giggled.

"What?"

"Only you could be this hard while standing in a fridge, Sherlock."

Sherlock huffed. "You're the one who got me this way."

They both froze as they heard movement outside.

Sherlock pulled a sachet of lube out of his pocket and whispered in his ear. "No time like the present, John. It's a good thing you like it rough; I think they'll be restocking the milk soon."

"C'mon then, you tease… stop talking about it and fuck me already."

Sherlock slicked himself up and wiped his hand off on his shirt. Without further preamble, he lined up behind John and forced himself in.

John let out a guttural moan that echoed throughout the small room. Sherlock's hand clapped over his mouth. "Shh!"

John nodded and pushed back hard, greedy for more of Sherlock's cock inside him. The rough pleasure of getting fucked and the possibility of getting caught outweighed the carton of cold milk holding his cock against the cold metal rack. _He's right– I'm not going to come like this, but I'm not sure I care._ He ached to free his cock and bring himself off while Sherlock pounded into him, but he knew there was no way he'd get away with it.

With each thrust into John, the metal racks rocked against each other. "Shhh, quiet, John!" Sherlock giggled.

"You're the one who braced me against them, you berk…"

Sherlock thrust harder, wondering just how much noise it would take to bring people into the room. John gave up trying to be quiet, the clattering from the milk racks clearly louder than his own moans.

Anyone walking down the milk aisle would have wondered if there was an earthquake in progress – a moaning, giggling earthquake.

Anyone in the warehouse… well, fortunately, no one in the warehouse could hear them over the din of the lorries in the loading dock.

Sherlock shuddered through his orgasm, slumping against John. "Ohhh. Oh, John."

" _Now?_ Seriously? Now is not the time for fuzzy afterglow, Sherlock." Using one hand, he freed himself from his milky prison. Then he pushed his blissfully grinning lover into an upright position. "Come on."

"But, John…" Sherlock's words were a little slow from the orgasm. "We're not done yet."

John had already done up his trousers and was working on Sherlock's clothes. When they were both marginally presentable, he grabbed a tray of milk and thrust it at Sherlock. "Hold this." He grabbed a tray of his own and practically shoved Sherlock back through the door to the warehouse.

A couple of shelf-stackers stopped what they were doing and gave them quizzical looks. John gave them his best military stare and just said, "Expired."

John heard a snort of muffled laughter from Sherlock. He elbowed him in the ribs, pushing him in the direction of the loading dock. They put the milk by some other racks and hurried out through the loading dock into the night.

As they hurried down the road, giddy on adrenaline, John started to laugh uncontrollably. "That," he said between gasping breaths, "is the last time I let you get the milk."

Sherlock erupted into another round of giggles. "We didn't even get the milk. We have to go back, John."

"I'm never shopping there again, Sherlock, at least not at this time of night."

As they made their way back to the flat, John looked over at his tall, graceful flatmate.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"I think we found the one disguise you're absolutely rubbish at."

"Oh, as if you were a convincing shelf-stacker, John. 'Expired?' Was that all you could come up with?"

Sherlock didn't even see it coming. John pulled him into a nearby alley and shoved him roughly against the wall, his smile belying the force of his actions.

"That's not a very nice thing to say, Sherlock. I thought I made quite a convincing shelf-stacker. I think…" He pushed against Sherlock, rutting against his lover's thigh. "I think I'd like an apology. And my cock down your throat."

Sherlock let out an involuntary groan and his breath caught. "Here, John?"

"Yes, my love. I want you to get down on your knees in this dirty alley and suck me off like a common whore."

Sherlock couldn't get on his knees fast enough.

John grabbed a fistful of Sherlock's hair as his lover's delicate fingers worked on his trousers. The sight of Sherlock on his knees never got old. He pulled Sherlock's head back roughly so he could see his face. "You like this, don't you? You dirty little cock slut."

In mute answer, Sherlock ran his tongue teasingly around his shell-pink perfect lips and he tugged his bottom lip between his teeth.

"Mm. That's what I thought. Now, apologise for mocking my shelf-stacking skills." _Did I really just say that? Good lord._

All further rational thought disappeared as Sherlock made a very thorough, very enthusiastic apology.

Braced up against the alley wall, fucking his lover's face, he whispered down to Sherlock, "You're definitely coming with me to get the milk from now on."


End file.
